Interlude
by HC247
Summary: Christine is called away from rehearsal one afternoon. E/C Drabble.


Christine's time in the _corps de ballet_ has given her an excellent sense of discipline. She has learned to regulate her breaths so as to keep the nerves at bay in the midst of a performance and, in more recent years, to send the final notes of an aria soaring into the rafters as the audience clamors to its feet with thunderous applause. She knows how to best stretch her aching muscles after every performance so as to keep her body lithe and loose and how to hold her temper when it flares so no unnecessary dissonance is caused within the company. Her discipline, coupled with ...opportunity... have provided her with the necessary tools to rise from ballet rat to celebrated diva and it is a practice she has perfected to be practically impenetrable. That is, until one afternoon during an especially long rehearsal, she receives a note that sends her sprinting down the hall for an impromptu meeting with with a dour ballet mistress and instead finds herself face to face with the expectant smirk of the Opera Ghost, his long, lean form propped against the edge of Madame Giry's desk.

"Ah, there you are," His silken tone invades her senses as his eyes unabashedly rove over her figure, laced and stuffed into the elaborate gown of Act III. "You do know how I loathe to be kept waiting."

"Then whatever are you waiting for?" she retorts with a wicked grin. And, with those words, she is brought face to face with a complete lack of the discipline she so prides herself on.

A lack of control that allows her to close the door and advance forward, pulling the pins from her hair and watching with smug satisfaction as his eyes widen. Stepping closer, she trails her fingers softly down the unmasked side of his face from hairline to jaw. His breath is shaky as he exhales and the feel of it, warm and whispering soft on her wrist, hits her with all of the force of the noonday sun.

He bends his head slightly, inching closer and closer to her mouth and it takes every shred of her restraint to keep herself from pushing him down on his back, tearing the mask from his face and ravishing him- both of them- absolutely senseless.

"You were a bit sharp on the second chorus," He whispers as his lips finally make contact with the corner of her mouth.

"Is that so?," she murmurs, his hand curling around her own while the other weaves itself through the loose curls of her hair. "Perhaps if I weren't called away..."

"I shall have a word with the Maestro," He snaps, moving the hand from her hair to encircle her waist. "At the moment, I find there to be more pressing matters to be addressed."

Christine is not even given the chance to voice her agreement as their lips slot together and then there are no more words. Erik tugs her closer, humming his approval into her open mouth when she gasps and her hands move to grasp the lapels of his dress coat. Christine sighs and allows him to pull her fully into his arms, eternally thankful and loathing of the many layers of fabric separating their skin. Untangling her hand from Erik's, her fingers rise to play with the slightly open collar of his shirt and she lets out a satisfied sigh when he shudders at the brush of her fingertips over the sensitive spot.

In that moment, the world seems to fall away around them and Christine is powerless to do anything other than wrap her arms completely around his neck as his fingers find the small of her back beneath the silken fabric of her gown, holding him a bit tighter when he bows his head to press his lips to the graceless hammering of the her pulse against her throat. She shifts against him slightly, drawing out a groan against her skin in his beautiful tenor and suddenly finds herself hoisted quite fluidly onto Erik's lap as he manages to seat himself on the edge of the desk.

"Erik." The name is breathy sigh against his temple, quickly followed by a sharp and stuttering inhale as one of the hands at her waist slides up her rib cage and then down, slipping beneath the neckline of her gown and stealing soft strokes over her heated flesh. Unwilling to be deterred much longer, Christine rocks her hips forward, a whine escaping her lips as she finds the delicious friction against his length and both hands drop to his belt at the same moment she hears the creak of the wooden door .

She feels Erik's hands still, meeting his wide eyes with her own dark ones and suddenly, they are exposed to cool waft of the afternoon air and the icy, withering glare of one Madame Giry.


End file.
